Bedspell. Jule Mcbride
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asking if he could get lucky? “Maybe.” She giggled. “I’m in cabin seven, too. Isn’t that a lucky number?”
“It sure is.”
The cabins only slept three, so she’d decided to let her girlfriends stay together while she was to share with a roommate—one of the New Jersey wiccans—whom she hadn’t yet met.
It might have been her imagination, but Gorgeous’s eyes looked veiled. “Going alone?”
“With girlfriends.” When he looked disappointed, she took a deep breath and plunged on. “Unless you decided to show up.”
“Me? Show up?”
She wasn’t sure if she’d made a mistake. “You know, if you were in the area.”
As if he just so happened to pass the Catskill Mountains every day of the week, he smiled and said, “You know, I just might run into you.”
His eyes locked into hers then. They were the same blue as the ocean under a burning sun hung in a cerulean sky. Breath left her lungs, and full years could have passed before she managed to blink. When she did, it was only because someone in the room had screamed.
“What was that?” she managed, tearing her eyes away.
“The statue of Eros!” shouted the voice as if in response to her question.
Her heart pounding with worry, she shifted her eyes to the pedestal on which the artifact had been displayed moments before, and then she blinked, feeling as if she was watching her life flash before her eyes. She saw Edmond Styles snatching away her promised promotion into the archives department. For a moment, wishful thinking almost made her believe the statue was still there. She could almost see it—about a foot tall, carved of dark wood.
And then she whispered, “It’s gone!”
THE NEXT MORNING, with only a day left until Halloween, Signe found herself shifting uncomfortably in a roller chair in the Met’s boardroom when Detective Alfredo Perez from the Eighty-fourth precinct stopped pacing to cast a suspicious glance toward the overnight bag at her feet. He was tall, pencil-thin, with short, spiky dark hair, ink-black eyes and a handlebar mustache that Signe thought made him look like a Mexican thief from an old spaghetti western.
Not taking his eyes from her bag, he said, “I was going to tell you not to leave town.”
Not a good sign. “Am I under arrest?”
He didn’t bother to answer. “Where are you going?”
She wasn’t sure she should admit it. “A wiccan retreat.”
“Wiccan?”
“Uh…you know. Witches.”
“Ah,” he said. “You’re a witch, then?”
Great. She could see the wheels turning. Detective Perez was connecting this information with the stolen statue, which was pagan. “No, actually, I’m not.” She lunged into a quick explanation of the trip and finished by flashing a smile and intoning, “I do not know, nor have I ever known, any real witches.”
He wasn’t amused. “What about cats?” He slid a grainy photograph toward her, probably reproduced from a security video. It was of her at the bar, talking to C.C., Diane and Mara. Signe hedged. It was bad enough that they thought she hadn’t turned on the alarm, even though she knew she’d done so, but she’d definitely be fired if she admitted to signing friends into the party under fake names.
“I know I turned on the alarm.”
He eyed her a long moment. “Who are these women?”
The man’s distrustful attitude was beginning to unnerve her. “I don’t know.” Surely, it would be proved that she’d flipped the switch on the alarm. If so, she’d be in the clear. Besides, her friends weren’t involved in the theft, and a priceless statue was bound to be found quickly, right? “Whoever took the statue will try to sell it,” she ventured. “Won’t they? I mean, don’t you think it will show up on the black market…?” Noting the pleading tone in her own voice, she let the remark trail off.
“Maybe.”
She took that for a yes, and sighed in relief. No, she wasn’t about to jeopardize her future at the museum by admitting she’d added her friends to a private party’s guest roster, just so they could grab some free drinks, catered hors d’ oeuvres and meet some good-looking rich men.
Detective Perez was staring at her coldly. “What were these cats talking about?”
She thought fast. “Mostly volunteer work.” That sounded positive and upbeat.
His voice sharpened. “And they were volunteering…?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” she managed to say. “But it was clear they were very nice women. Not the sort to steal artifacts. You know,” she continued, the lies not coming easily, “they sounded as if they loved…uh…small children. And pets. I think they even mentioned giving gifts to people less fortunate than themselves.”
“Cat burglars,” he muttered. “Cute.”
Was Detective Perez really considering her friends as suspects? “They seemed like very nice women,” Signe repeated.
His eyes pinned her. “You said they didn’t talk to you.”
“Well—” Her throat constricted, and she swallowed hard. “It was in the way they ordered.”
“The way they ordered?”
“They didn’t sound like thieves.”
“How do thieves sound?”
She searched her brain. “Not like…nice women.”
“Our conversation is getting a little circular.”
At least he’d noticed. Reaching down, she clutched the handle of her overnight bag. As she did, she thought of Gorgeous for the first time since the interview had begun. He’d been truly kind after the theft was discovered, and while he’d never again referred to her invitation, she was sure she’d seen something promising in his eyes. Ten to one, he was going to turn up in the Catskills tonight. “Look, Detective Perez, I’d like to help—I really would—and if you need to speak to me again—”
It was the wrong time for her cell to ring. Wincing apologetically, she slid a hand into her purse and drew out the phone. Quickly opening it, she whispered, “Hello?”
“I’m on my way in a fabulous yellow convertible,” chortled C.C. “I’ve already picked up everybody else. Be in front of the Met in ten.”
As she powered off, Signe wrenched her gaze from the grainy photo of her friends in their cute cat costumes. Detective Perez’s dark eyes were still scrutinizing her, and even without a mirror, she knew she looked guilty. Lying had never been her strong suit. When she was little, she’d actually spent hours practicing telling untruths in the mirror. It had never helped. At the age of seven, her own father had made her swear on a Bible he used for his legal work that she’d never attempt to play poker.
“If we’re done,” she ventured, “I’ve really got to go.”
“One more question.”
“What?”
“How’s your sex life, Ms. Sargent?”
Her eyes widened. “My sex life?”
“Yes,” he said. “Your sex life, Ms. Sargent. It’s where—”
Quickly, she raised a hand, murmuring, “Uh…no need to explain.” After a stunned moment, she added, “Oh.” Was Detective Perez wondering if a lack of potency was her motive? Did he really think she’d stolen the statue of Eros to enhance her life in the bedroom?
Heat flooded her cheeks. “It’s…” Virtually nonexistent right